


Aftermath

by Akaadji



Series: What Remains After [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (and its consequences), (assumed) Hallucinations, Confusion, Denial, Grief/Mourning, Hospitals, Loss, M/M, Undoing The Apocalypse, allusions to canonical suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28604295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akaadji/pseuds/Akaadji
Summary: Martin wakes up in the ruins of the institute, disoriented and in pain. Jon doesn't.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: What Remains After [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2096016
Comments: 10
Kudos: 42





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> more detailed cw in the end notes, but the focus of this is Martin's grief so be prepared for that.

It wasn’t that Martin couldn’t foresee this way this would all likely end. It was just that keeping a small bit of hope was the only way he could possibly keep going forward, and really, given that everything worked on dream logic these days anyway what’s to say that his hope _wouldn’t_ have a tangible effect? That had been harder to keep up after Upton House, of course; knowing something in the back of your mind was a far cry from being faced with the reality of Jon’s rapid deterioration when cut off from his connection to the Eye. 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Jon had told him. They’d let it drop, then. At least when it came to speaking about it aloud. Days had returned to having no meaning after they’d stepped back out into the world but he'd run over things in his head for a long time afterwards. 

There had come other, fresher horrors. New things to consume his thoughts, each more troubling than the last. Things he still couldn't think back on without his chest tightening in a sickening way. Each adding more and more doubt that he had to suppress. There had been so many times when he’d thought about asking Jon for something he knew the man wouldn’t ever want to give, but the time was never right. All the way up to reaching London and reuniting with Georgie and Melanie. They’d fought earlier that day, and once it wasn’t just the two of them anymore there really wasn’t another opportunity. 

And then, finally, it was over. They'd said their goodbyes at Jon's insistence. One last embrace, a final gentle press of lips to the top of Jon's head, and then it was time. Martin couldn't remember anything after that. Not until he woke up in the ruins of the institute surrounded by, simultaneously, far too much noise and far too little. Dazed, he slowly pushed off the ground, sitting up carefully. His head was killing him, and his body ached, but he was fairly certain that the latter was due to however long he’d been lying on the rubble-strewn floor before he woke up. 

No longer were the sounds of agony or fear surrounding him, he realized belatedly. Instead, he was met with sounds he had not heard in...god, he never would know how long it had been, would he? The sounds of regular city life. Something he'd told Jon, told _himself_ , they would bring back somehow. The weight of realizing that they truly had succeeded crashed over him and the world blurred. He hunched forward, burying his head in his hands as he broke down sobbing. Eventually the overwhelming flood of emotion subsided enough for Martin to realize that there had been no arms wrapping comfortably around him, no face resting against his back whispering assurances to help him through the breakdown.

"Jon…?" He barely recognized the choked sound of his own voice, shaky and almost-echoing in the destroyed space. His shirt sleeve was halfway to his face before he caught himself, remembering the filth crusting it. He made a half-hearted attempt to wipe his face on his shoulder instead, just enough to clear his vision, before turning sharply. Ignoring the sting of rubble digging into his knees, he scrambled over to the prone form and brushed bloodstained hair from Jon’s face. The other man’s eyes were closed, his face slack, and there was no sound from his mouth when Martin turned him over. 

“Jon, wake up. Come on, I know you must be exhausted but-” The words died in his throat. It wasn’t just the way that his boyfriend’s head lolled, or the lack of any twitch on Jon’s lips. It was the small scrapes on his chin and forehead. Scrapes that in no way should still be there.

“No, no, no...Jon you can’t do this to me, not again…” Tears pricked at his eyes again and he fought to keep his breathing slow. He needed to get them out of the ruins of the Institute and get someone to call 999. There would be time to be afraid later. 

The longer he was awake, the more his head spun. It took a couple of attempts before Martin felt he had a solid hold on Jon’s unconscious form. Jon wasn’t the largest man, but dead weight was harder to carry. That thought made something twist sickeningly in his gut, and he took a few deep breaths before he made his way to his feet. Right. Just get outside. Then someone can call for him.

  
  


Martin’s eyes watered anew as he stepped out into the bright daylight. The eyes of passers-by seemed to skip right over him at first, so he stepped further along the sidewalk away from the ruins of the Institute. He held Jon closer, steeling himself before raising his voice.   
  
“I don’t have a mobile, I need someone to phone 999 for me.” It was less of a plea than it was a command, and though the strangers continued to give him a wide berth he saw several people bring their phones out and dial. Distantly he registered what a sight he must make; as much as he hated it he was aware his size made him look imposing, and now he was filthy and wavering on his feet, holding a bloodied and unconscious person to boot. Oh, seeming to appear from god-only-knows-where surely wouldn’t have helped either. The knowledge that dozens of eyes were focused on him but none dared to come close was a bitter irony. 

“T-they’re on their way. Are you...okay?” Martin’s eyes flicked to the source of the voice; an American from the sound of her. She was actually making her way carefully towards him, and he had to fight the urge to step away. 

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” Martin forced out through lips he only now realized were parched. Perhaps he should be concerned about how emptily the statement came out, but he didn’t have any worry to spare. Not when he hadn’t felt Jon’s chest rise in all the time he’d had the other man held to his body. 

“Do you want to sit down? Your friend, he must be heavy, right?” _Not as heavy as he should be,_ Martin wanted to say. _I’ve spent an uncountable amount of time carrying a pack that held everything that let me pretend we’d wind up here again. I’ve been through far worse._ So many potential responses, but all of them better left unsaid. He settled for shaking his head.

“I really think it would be better if you did. You look a bit unsteady.” The woman was still drawing closer. Martin allowed himself one step backward, and immediately regretted it as he lost his footing and stumbled, back hitting the wall hard and knocking the breath from his lungs.   
  
“Don’t-” he gasped out. Even if he hadn’t just half-winded himself there wouldn’t have been an ending to the sentence; Martin’s mind was too much a jumble of thoughts and fears to voice anything coherent now that the important work of getting an ambulance for Jon was done. At least it seemed to be enough to stop her approach. Shame flooded through him as he slid down the wall, legs finally giving out. Martin’s head rang with pain from being jostled as he hit the ground, his knees stinging from impacting the pavement.

“Okay, I won’t come any closer. I’m Lily, by the way. Will you tell me your name?” Her calm tone stirred up a mess of fear, anger, trepidation, and other things Martin couldn’t name. He didn’t want to speak any more. He shook his head again, returning his attention to Jon. The other man’s hair had fallen across his face when Martin hit the sidewalk, so he brushed it away and tried to ignore the coolness of Jon’s skin. This wasn’t like last time. It wasn’t. If Jon had needed six months to wake up before it would surely just be a few hours at _most._ After all they’d seen, everything Jon had done, it wasn’t possible for this to be it. Recovering again would be nothing compared to all that Jon had been able to do after the world ended. Jon wouldn’t do this to him again, not after everything they’d been through. 

Distantly, Martin registered that the woman was still talking, but his brain wasn’t parsing the words. He didn’t try to cling to them. All that he could focus on was the man in his arms, pleading silently for the moment he would gasp and open his eyes. 

  
  


“...sir? Sir, can you hear me?” A louder male voice shook him from his thoughts, far too close even though Martin hadn’t heard anyone approaching. “I need you to let go of your friend so we can examine them, okay?” A firm hand on his shoulder, shaking him a bit to get him to focus. Instinctively Martin held Jon’s body closer to him, before the words registered fully and he forced himself to comply with the man’s directions. As the paramedic took Jon away from him, Martin struggled to breathe against the sudden lack of comforting weight against his chest. Another question was asked of him, from the way the man’s tone went up at the end, but he hadn’t understood a word of it. 

“...sorry, what?” Martin managed after a moment. His mouth was so dry. When had he last drank something? Jon would know. Or no, he wouldn't, would he? The Eye had taken their short respite from him as soon as they’d left. And now…

The sound of the paramedic snapping his fingers near Martin’s ear brought his attention back to the present, and he looked up, still dazed.  
  
“Did your friend overdose? Have you given him Narcan already? How long has he been unresponsive?” The man’s face was as impassive as his tone, but he was definitely watching Martin for any signs that he was lying.

“N-no, it’s not like that. I-he wasn’t conscious when I woke up but neither of us do drugs, we’ve just...we’ve had a rough time of it lately.” Martin didn’t have it in him to laugh bitterly at the level of understatement there, but he felt the urge nonetheless. Proper honesty certainly wasn’t the key if he wanted to be seen as lucid; he wasn’t particularly angry about the assumption being made. They were both in quite a state, after all. Two scruffy, dirty men, one unconscious and bloodied, the other barely able to follow what was going on. 

“So you aren’t sure how long he hasn’t been breathing?” the paramedic clarified. Martin tried to respond, but something in his chest tightened and stole the breath from him again. The weight of eyes on him was crushing. He swallowed, licking his lips.

“It’s not-” a shaky attempt to breathe, his knees aching as Martin forced himself up from the ground so he could start walking over to where Jon was being tended to, “...you don’t understand, he...”   
  
“Stay down,” the paramedic’s warning came a moment too late; Martin’s vision swam, heart pounding as he was overcome by dizziness. Then he was falling again as everything went dark.

  
  
  


Martin drifted in and out of consciousness as the paramedics loaded the two of them into the ambulance, answering their questions about whether he knew who he was, where he was. Not knowing the date seemed to be an issue for the paramedics, but really he couldn’t bring himself to care. Neither of them were paying any attention to Jon, only him. Jon needed it more, though they kept ignoring his protests to that effect.

More than once during the ride, he’d come back to himself and try to move his arm only to be confused by the sudden sting of pain as he tugged on the IV that had been inserted into the back of his hand. An attempt to sit up was quickly halted by one of the paramedics putting a firm hand on his chest, and some kind of instruction he didn’t parse. 

After an indeterminate amount of time the ambulance doors were suddenly open, bright light flooding in to send another sharp stab of agony through Martin’s head. Closing his eyes against the sun, he turned his head to the side in an attempt to block out as much of the light as possible. Once he was wheeled inside, the overhead fluorescents were at least a slight improvement and he risked opening his eyes again. He looked around, using his good hand to prop himself up. He needed to find Jon. In the ambulance he’d been able to know the other man was nearby, but now…

“Sir, please lay back down, okay?” A soft female voice from beside the stretcher startled him. “Can you tell me your name?”

“...Martin Blackwood,” he managed after a moment, turning as best he could without pulling on the IV, “That’s not important though, Jon’s-”

“Is that the name of the man you were with?” A cautious note in her voice now, one that set Martin on edge. He knew how things looked, that’s why he had to get it across to them that this wasn’t what it seemed like. 

“ _Yes_. Jonathan Sims. I’ll be fine, but he’s…” His arm was trembling from the strain of holding himself up when he felt this weak, and his head was beginning to swim again. Reluctantly, he laid back down on the stretcher. He could still feel eyes on him, and he longed to make it stop. Not that he wanted to be Lonely again. He just wanted to escape feeling the judgement and pity he knew he was being viewed with. The world was how it was supposed to be again, he shouldn’t have this oppressive _weight_ on him anymore. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Blackwood. He was unresponsive at the scene and the paramedics weren’t able to resuscitate him.” Her voice was calm and gentle, parroting words he was sure she’d said dozens of different ways. Trying to console him. Before Martin could find the words to tell her that no, Jon wasn’t dead, he heard a muttered curse from behind him.

“I knew you looked familiar. You’re the ones from the Magnus Institute, aren’t you?” For the first time since he’d awoken back in London, someone was speaking to him without softening their words or pitying him. It shouldn’t be a comfort to be spoken to with disdain, it really shouldn’t, and yet it was far better than being spoken to like he would break. More familiar, as pathetic as that was. The source of the voice walked around the stretcher, and Martin saw a tall woman with a stern expression glowering down at him. Her pale blue eyes raked over him and he fought the urge to shrink away. 

“You used to visit that man all the time when he was here. I hoped I’d never see either of you again.” With that, she met the eyes of the paramedic that had brought Martin in. “Bring Mr. Sims to my department. There are special circumstances here, that’s all you need to know.” Martin glanced quickly at the other man, saw him look like he was going to argue before sighing and nodding. With that, the woman he assumed had to have been one of the doctors who’d been on Jon’s case after the Unknowing walked away briskly, shaking her head. He tried to push away the memories trying to crowd their way into his mind, blinking away the burning in his eyes. 

“Mr. Blackwood, you’re going to be taken for a few tests after you’re admitted, alright? Elise here will help you.” The paramedic motioned to the woman who’d been consoling him earlier, and she smiled politely at him. Martin made an attempt to mimic the gesture, but he felt his lips trembling. 

  
  


He barely followed the conversation Elise attempted with him. There was a moment of relief when she left him to be checked in, right up until he had to confirm that no, he didn’t have his identification, and no, sorry, there’s nobody you can call to let them know where I am. As he gave the receptionist the address and number that would be on file, he quickly added that he’d lost his phone and hadn’t been able to replace it. With every acknowledgement of how little he had left in the world, he could feel himself slipping. It would be so much easier not to feel any of it. He’d told Jon that he wasn’t lonely anymore, but facing the reality of things now that the world was back to normal...god only knew if he still had his flat, or any of his belongings. 

They’d left for Scotland in such a hurry; there wasn’t much left in his bank account and certainly no job anymore. But he didn’t have time to think about that as he was brought to a bed. He watched dully as the nurse pulled the curtain closed, followed her directions as she wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm, barely felt it as she drew blood. A light was shined into his eyes for reasons he didn’t register.

After a battery of questions which he answered to the best of his ability, and a variety of other basic tests, Martin was left with a paper cup of tepid water and a basin he didn’t bother to try to argue that he didn’t need. He forced himself to sip slowly despite his parched throat telling him to drink as much as he could as quickly as possible. His head still spun when he stayed upright too long, so in short order he laid back on the bed to stare miserably at the ceiling.

  
  


There was no clock in sight, so he had no sense of how quickly the time was passing. The longer he waited, the heavier the weight in his chest grew, until he was afraid to breathe out for fear of seeing fog escaping his lungs. Every so often he would hear footsteps approach, but no one ever pulled aside the curtain to speak to him. Even as the sounds of a busy hospital began to soften, (whether they were muffled by trauma setting in or something more sinister Martin couldn’t be sure), he still felt the heavy weight of eyes upon his back. He knew perfectly well that there was nothing behind him but equipment and a sickly-colored wall. That knowledge, however, did nothing to make the feeling go away. It wasn’t long before Martin couldn’t stop himself from pushing himself halfway into a sitting position to confirm that he was, indeed, still alone. Frustrated, he buried his face in his hands as he fell back against the pillow. Another twinge of pain as the IV in the back of his hand shifted. 

“Mr. Blackwood?” The sound of the curtain being slid aside, and a different voice from any he’d heard so far that afternoon. Martin couldn’t help the way he flinched as he forced himself upright. He swayed as his vision started to black out, the rush of blood in his ears as he closed his eyes. He felt a steadying hand on his back just for a moment, but by the time Martin felt certain that he wasn’t going to pass out the other man was focused back on the clipboard he was carrying. 

“I’m Dr. Harris, and I’ll be handling your care today.” The man’s voice was brusque, his attention still on the papers he was studying when Martin attempted to meet his eyes. 

“Outside of your disorientation and headache you don’t appear to have the symptoms associated with a concussion. Both of those _could_ be side effects of dehydration, but given your overall situation we’re going to keep you here overnight for observation. Do you understand?”

_I don’t really care_ , Martin wants to say, but his voice fails him when he makes an attempt. _It’s not like I have anywhere else I can go_. The doctor finally looked up after a choked noise escaped him, and Martin nodded miserably to answer the other man’s question. 

“As for your...partner,” the doctor paused, giving Martin a moment to correct him before continuing, “Dr. Singer is handling his case.” 

“Mmm.” Whatever weight those words were apparently supposed to have were lost on him. Even with his eyes open, it was becoming increasingly difficult to stay awake. Unwanted memories of collapsing in the entryway of Upton House rose to the forefront of his mind as he tried in vain to keep his focus on what the doctor was saying. Once the other man left to continue his rounds, it was no time at all until he gave in to sleep. 

  
  


The lack of windows or natural light made it impossible to tell how long he’d been sleeping for. He was still bleary. The feeling of something thin and cold touching his arm suddenly made him flinch away with a revolted gasp, until it registered that it was just the IV line. Right. He wasn’t under siege in his apartment, hadn’t been for years. Jane Prentiss was long dead. It took a few moments for him to register that what had initially woken him was the sound of someone’s voice, and he bit his lip. There was no time to focus on how she’d interpret his panic as she continued, making his breath freeze in his chest.   
  
“I’m sorry to wake you but I’m here about Jonathan Sims. As I’m sure you’re aware, you’re his emergency contact.” 

“Please, I need to-” Martin started, but fell silent at the grimace that momentarily crossed the face of the woman in front of him.   
  
“Dr. Singer is aware of Mr. Sims’ previous history, and has taken that into her assessment, but I’m afraid that along with a lack of vital signs he is showing no brain activity. While the exact cause of death is unclear…” She was still talking, but all Martin could hear was the pounding of his heart and the increasingly rapid sound of his own breathing. Drawing his knees to his chest, he shook his head as though that would do anything. After the Unknowing Jon’s brain had shown a flood of activity even as his body was still and lifeless. No matter how dead he’d looked there, unmoving and unbreathing, Martin had known that he was still in there somewhere. If Jon didn’t have that…

He hadn’t realized he was crying, but the taste of salt in his mouth as he drew in a ragged breath brought his attention to the cooling lines down his face. A second before he brought his hand up to wipe at the tears he felt the illusion of having done it. He half-heard something about condolences and arrangements, and forced out a plea to be left alone. 

Things weren’t supposed to be this way. He’d known, they both had, that Jon might not last long without the Eye. But they were supposed to have _some_ time to actually live once the world was back to normal. If Jon succeeded, they were going to be free. He’d chosen not to dwell on the possibility that they’d fail, so whenever he’d had a moment of imagining an after it involved the two of them making the most of the time Jon would have. Martin wasn’t supposed to be the only one to wake up. That had never been part of the plan. 

Each heaving gasp for air felt like it drew just a bit more of the Lonely in with it. He was still in the bed, but the smell of rain and sea salt burned in his nose and he could almost see the beach Jon had brought him back from, mingling with the monochrome dreariness of his domain. It called to him, offering an escape from having to feel these crushing emotions. 

“Jon...” Martin wrapped his arms around his knees, pulling into himself as much as he could. It had been so long since he’d been tempted to let it take him. It had tried its best when he’d lost himself in that house, but he’d fought it off. He’d had a...relatively pleasant chat with himself, given the circumstances of his domain. Neither time had he _wanted_ to give in. Not like he had on that beach before Jon had forced him to See. But really, what was there now? 

The grief and regret felt like a physical weight on his back, burning into him like judging eyes. He lifted his head just enough to confirm that he was, in fact, alone before letting it fall back down. The filthy knees of his jeans didn’t even matter anymore as he let his forehead rest against them. Maybe this time it wasn’t _going_ to be a choice he made. Maybe it had already been made for him. That would be easier, wouldn’t it? To just accept that it was always going to end this way? That his escape from the Lonely was always going to be temporary and all the harder for the respite (however cruel most of it was) he’d been given? 

Everything in his life had always been for someone else; even after he’d been able to admit to himself what he really wanted from Jon if they couldn’t fix things, he’d never had it in him to ask for it. He’d been willing to die to stop the Extinction (thought that even if he failed it wouldn’t really be that bad), and keep going through domain after domain because he loved Jon and it would all be worth it someday, but now the world was back, he had nothing left, and he was just so tired…

He raised his head to take in a shuddering breath, swallowing thickly around the weight of the grief clogging his throat. Was the room hazy, or was it just the sheen of tears? Did it matter anymore? He rubbed, hard, against his eyes with the heels of his hands. It did nothing good for his headache, but at least it was a pain he could control. 

The sudden feeling of a hand on his back made him flinch harshly. He hadn’t heard anyone approaching, but then he hadn’t really been listening. But when his eyes focused, there was nobody there. He was still alone. 

“Great,” he huffed, a bitter laugh escaping him as he realized that he’d been imagining things. The racket of the hospital around him felt louder than it had a moment before, and it only made his head pound all the more. 

The next time the phantom feeling of touch came, there was no denying it. Martin could clearly see empty space in front of him despite the feeling of hands on his face, and when he brought his hand up he was able to touch his cheek without anything getting in the way. The feeling of contact didn’t fade, though, simply adjusted so that it was his hand feeling pressure against it instead. 

He closed his eyes, fighting back another wave of tears. Without the visual reinforcement that there was nothing there, the sensation of touch felt so much stronger. There was something familiar about this, some thread tugging at the back of his mind through the haze. Then all at once, he was deep within a near-overwhelmingly vivid memory. 

_Nothing for as far as the eye could see, save the shoreline and swirling mists. Quiet, peaceful, and most of all, empty. He’d only half-registered that Jon had found him, that the other man was trying to speak to him. Answers came automatically, detached from any emotion. But then Jon’s hands were on his face, forcing Martin to meet his eyes. Burning through the fog to bring him back to himself._

_“I see you…”, he’d said. And he had, in a way unlike anything else._ But despite how real the memory felt, when Martin opened his eyes again, a fresh wave of tears spilling over, he saw nothing but the empty room. He didn’t realize that the tears hadn’t trailed straight down, not at first. Not until the cool air highlighted the unnatural track that curved around his cheeks and down the sides of his neck. The way they’d only run if there were something blocking them. And then that touch again, in what he couldn’t pretend was anything other than an attempt to brush the tears away. 

“...Jon?” It was a stupid thing to say, and ridiculous to hope for, but what in their lives hadn’t been an absurd mockery of reality in the last few years? He listened as hard as he could for any trace of the man’s voice, but there were only echoing footfalls and someone’s shaky breathing underneath a buzz of chatter he couldn’t understand. Instead, a new searing bolt of pain shot through his head, and in the moment before he closed his eyes against it he almost thought he saw _something’s_ hand outstretched. He tried to muffle the whimpers that escaped him, but either someone had been about to check in on him anyway or he hadn’t noticed that he’d cried out when the pain first hit. 

This time, the hands on him were real, guiding him to lie back as the nurse told him that everything would be alright. Martin tried to protest, fought in vain to stay conscious, but it was to no avail. The last thing he registered was a hand brushing a lock of greasy hair away from his face, and he didn’t know whether it was real or imagined. 

**Author's Note:**

> cw: 
> 
> Martin is confused/disoriented/has trouble following what's being said to him multiple times during the fic  
> brief assumption of drug use/overdose  
> disdainful reaction from a doctor who recognizes Martin and Jon  
> allusions to Martin's past willingness to die/wanting Jon to kill him if need be  
> sustained feeling of being watched even when alone  
> hopelessness spiraling as Martin thinks about having nothing, the Lonely trying to reclaim him  
> physical contact that is originally assumed to be hallucinatory, but isn't  
> ambiguous ending
> 
> I tried to make this so that it could stand alone, but it is going to be the first part of a series. My plans are that not all of it will be this dire, but this had to be done first.


End file.
